


Restless

by Livia_LeRynn



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Anxiety, Camping, Citadel daily life, Drinking, Drunk Furiosa, Established Relationship, F/M, Impact Play, Max likes Furiosa’s metal arm, Outdoor Sex, POV Max, Panic Attacks, Porn With Plot, Post-Canon, Pregnancy Scares, Rough Sex, Sparring, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Vomiting, Woman on Top
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-27
Updated: 2017-11-27
Packaged: 2019-02-07 17:10:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12845709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Livia_LeRynn/pseuds/Livia_LeRynn
Summary: Citadel life isn’t sitting well for Furiosa.  Max thinks she needs a vacation even if she doesn’t know the word.A fill forhttp://archiveofourown.org/collections/Smutty_artsPromptChallengeinspired byYoukaiyume’slatest NSFW art.





	Restless

Furiosa has been restless for days. Max can see it in the way she checks every bolt and latch three times over and then walks away so she can stare into space with her arms folded. Then she'll sit down to some sedentary work and end up fidgeting or doodling. All the white lines her chalk leaves behind in place of guzz or bullet tallies lead towards the corners of the board. She doesn't need to say a word.

She gets like this from time to time, and usually giving her a problem to solve or a run to plan gives her some relief, but problems are becoming fewer and farther between. Even the trade runs are becoming routine, she’s more likely to come back from them stiff and sore from sitting then stiff and sore from fighting. He makes sure to press extra hard when he works out the kinks from her back and shoulders, hard enough that she groans and writhes until her tendons move smoothly over her bones.

He pokes at her one morning when she’s especially fidgety after breakfast to see if he can provoke a tussle. She's reluctant at first, huffing exasperatedly as she swats him away, but then she counters and baits him to strike again. He does and ends up with her elbow kissing the side of his temple when she dodges. He punches her in the gut just hard enough that she smiles and then hits the outside of his thigh with the side of her fist. 

They go on like this, bruising and scratching as they hastily pull clothing off or shoving it aside until they are too breathless to kiss while they fuck. She is stone still as she cums, all deep-voiced moans and clenched muscles. He wraps around her, pulling her tightly to him as he yields and bends around her. She snakes her arm under his and grips his flesh with her claws – he feels all soft and vulnerable in contrast to her steel, a bit like a turtle in reverse he supposes.

She tightens her grip on him, and he howls as he melts into a dribbly mess, but he can’t let her win. So he swings the side of his fist towards her abdomen, a little higher than before so to not dislodge him from her hold. Her block is quick and decisive. 

“No,” she groans as she pulls away, pressing her flesh hand to her belly. He stops immediately and sits up to face her. She does look a little pale, a little peaked beneath her post coital flush. She swallows hard and finally admits. “Breakfast isn’t sitting right.”

He should have noticed that she was wearing her arm without her cincher; she usually only does that when she’s bleeding. When did she last bleed? Since then, he’s heard her belly complain rudely while she worked beside him on the new rig. He’s seen her sneak early to bed after dinner and wrap her arms around her middle as she tried to sleep. He’s noticed her groan and rub herself when she thought no one is paying attention. 

He just hasn’t brought it up, not more than an extra insistence that she remember to use the herbs Iris gave them. She’d told him that it didn’t matter, that she couldn’t, that her body was all messed up inside. He’d believed her mostly. Now as he watches her stand, her face tense, her belly showing a certain telltale scar beneath the jagged edge of her shirt, he’s not so sure.

“Hey,” Furiosa whispers as she turns towards him. “I’m ok.” 

The scar smiles up at him all lop-sided like where the stitches putting her back together were less than precise. Max’s heart jumps and his stomach drops, raving a yawning, empty ache in the middle. He tries to fill the space with frantic, panting breaths as the room closes in around him. He’s surprised he has the presence of mind to fasten his fly before he runs out the door. 

She’s normally the faster of the two, but she can’t well chase after him with one boot in her hand and one pant leg trailing behind her. He makes it all the way to his car before she catches up to him. She corners him there with his hands and his head on the steering wheel she made for him. The ignition remains un-touched. He can’t stay, and he can’t run.

“Can I come in?”

He nods without looking up. He hears the door open, feels the car accept her as easily as it does him. She positions herself in the seat beside him, and they wait in silence. His hands shake with fear and shame as time passes without measure. 

Furiosa’s belly speaks for her, a low, indignant rumbling. “It’s just indigestion,” she says, and then she adds, “probably my body telling me to stop stuffing myself before I have to find new pants.” She sighs as she slouches deeper into her seat and lowers her eyes as she pokes at her flesh and finally puts the pieces together. “I’ll have Iris check just to be sure… I’ll go right now if you want me to.”

He nods, trying not to look at her belly.

“Do you want to come?”

He shakes his head. This is about all the human interaction he can manage. 

She pats his shoulder as she rises to leave. “Don’t go anywhere.”

Furiosa probably isn’t gone very long, but it feels like an eternity. She comes back quietly as if trying not to spook a wild animal. Max tries to read her bearing, tries to guess what she had to say before she speaks, but his every guess consumes him with panic.

“Well,” she says as she eases herself into the car, “I’m soft and old and stressed, maybe allergic to something, maybe just sensitive, but I’m probably not really sick, and I’m definitely not pregnant.” She sets her head on his shoulder. “Really, I’m not. I pissed on Iris’s leaves, and she poked and prodded at me until I stunk up the room, and…” She laughs as she looks up, watching him for a reaction. When he doesn’t so much as smile, she nestles into him again. “I promise there’s no baby in here, just me.” She almost sounds disappointed, not like she really wants a baby so much as she wanted a break from the monotony. 

Max strokes her hair above her ears, feels the beginnings of curls between his fingers. “‘M sorry,” he mumbles, sorry she’s been feeling like rubbish, sorry he forced her to admit to it, sorry he panicked, sorry she isn’t happy in the place she’d fought so hard to win, sorry he wasn’t more reliable, sorry he even thought about running.

“Hey.” She lifts her head so she can look him in the eyes. “Thank you for waiting.” She kisses his forehead before sticking her head out the side of the car and shouting, “All clear!” to the Boys working in the garage. Then she relaxes into her seat. “Lets go for a drive.”

The drive is calm and quiet, uneventful, and Max knows from how Furiosa twitches that she almost wishes it were otherwise. She demands a turn in the driver’s seat even though right side drivers are harder for her arm, and then she pushes the needle into the red as she tears across the wasteland. She carves what used to be called donuts into the dust, kicks it up in a twister until she is hacking and heaving too hard to keep driving. She stops and cackles as she dizzily stumbles out of the car; she’s still cackling as she pukes up the breakfast that has been loitering like a bad guest in her stomach all morning. 

Furiosa falls asleep while Max drive back, finally at ease at least for the moment. He keeps looking over at her and watching how she groggily turns her face to hide from the sun. He feels himself break a little inside at the memory of the first time she looked like that. How long has it been since he found her? He shifts his gaze to the rear vision mirror almost out of habit before reaching over to shield her face. She doesn’t react- out cold. Max wonders how long it’s been since she really slept.

They are much alike in many way, not the least of which being how too many days of quiet and stillness make them twitchy. For him, they make his mind wander until he's filled his belly with fear because nothing this good can last. For her, the process is different. The stillness scares her just as much not because she’s knows it won’t last but because she fears it will. She hardly uses her small, cracked mirror; she’s says it’s because she might turn to stone if she looks too long or too deep. He could use a little steadiness since the world has eroded all his stone to sand. 

Max spends the rest of the day watching Furiosa coast from task to task. He causes a stir and council by just showing up. He’s always invited, but normally he prefers activities with less social interaction. Today he just wants to keep an eye on Furiosa. He still has a nagging worry he can’t quite place, maybe just a hangover from the morning’s drama. He watches her doodle through discussions of crop storage and flick dust from her prosthesis while there is an argument over what scene should be painted for the mess hall mural. He watches her bury herself in target practice and blow through what would have been entirely too many bullets a few hundred days earlier. 

She’s extra critical and especially short-tempered during Pup training, barking out orders for the pack to keep up with her while she cranks out an excessive number and variety of crunches. She’s beautiful when she scrunches her face in effort, but Max can tell this isn’t quite scratching her itch. So he sets down the steering wheel he’s been building for the new rig and swings himself down from his perch on a large pipe. The Pups are immediately distracted and energized because _Hairy Man_ as they call him always has the best ideas for training games.

“Quiet!” Furiosa barks, and they obey but keep their wide eyes fixed on Max.

“Who wants to fight the Imperator?” he asks, and the Pups cheer.

Furiosa glares at Max for undermining her authority, but her mouth turns up. “One at a time,” she says as she unbuckles her prosthesis. “Hit me as twice as hard as you want to be hit back.”

She’s a good teacher, Max reminds himself as he passes around the box of rubber mouth guards; she won’t lose control. She selects an older Pup first, maybe thirteen years or so. He’s all knees and elbows, and she’s mentioned wanting to push a bit harder before. She goes slow, leaving openings she would never leave for Max. She still lands the first blow, a tap to the Pup’s cheek that makes his nose run. The Pup sniffs and grits his teeth before swinging wildly out of range. She presses closer as if going for an elbow attack, one she’s been teaching the Pups to avoid. The Pup does as he’s been trained and ducks before delivering an uppercut to her gut.

“Harder,” she hisses. The Pup obliges, and Furiosa winces when his bony knuckles make contact. “Good.”

She swings her shin at the Pup’s ribs, giving him the perfect opportunity to catch her leg. He does, but he fumbles and drops it. She catches her balance and kicks again, this time contacting with his side. The Pups grunts at the blow, but he catches her leg and manipulates it so she falls backwards onto the stone floor.

She groans as she rises, but she’s bares her mouth guard in a grin before spitting it into her palm. “Don’t just stand there. Finish me next time.”

She goes on like, moving down the line of Pups until the last and youngest one runs circles around her while she gasps for air. Then when she’s satisfied, she sends them off to dinner. That leaves her and Max alone in the training room. 

“They’re getting better,” she remarks, her voice still shaky from adrenaline.

“Got a good teacher,” Max says as he walks the mouth guard box to the faucet in the corner for washing. 

“We need to soften this floor though.” She hunches to coax a crack from her stiffening back. “Don’t know with what though.”

Max holds up a mouth guard. “Worn out tyre bits?”

She shrugs as she makes her way to the pipe Max was sitting on earlier. She props a boot on it and groans as she stretches her leg. Her eyes fall on the steering wheel Max left there, and she studies his work where he’s started tying rusty bolts together into a curling vine pattern. Then she looks at him as her fingers trace the soft leather of the hand grip, and his throat tightens.

“Are you leaving when the rig’s done?”

He thought he would. Now he’s not so sure. There’s maybe ten days of work left, and he thinks he can go that long without chasing himself off. He’s always given himself a planned out before; his other visits were about waiting, waiting on car repairs or stubborn injuries or the harvest or just something to define an attainable stretch of time. 

She’s still waiting eagerly for an answer as he tries to decide what she wants to hear. 

“If you do…” She lets her voice trail off as she fits her nub into her prosthesis. 

She fastens her buckles in silence until the arm is on tightly enough that she can close the hand around the steering wheel. He’s asked her to go with him before, but there’s always been something here that needed to be done, something the girls just couldn’t do on their own, or so she said. She’ll admit to hoarding tasks from them because she needs to feel useful, to feel relevant, like she hasn’t already reached the greatest moment of her life. What she really needs, Max decides, is a vacation even if she doesn’t know the word for it.

“Why wait,” Max mumbles as she holds the wheel before her. He places his hand over hers. “Maybe a scouting trip?”

So the next day they pack lightly into his car for five days or so. She leaves the girls with detailed instructions but no one in charge because this is training for when the Citadel must find its own way. Then she cuts her hair extra short so she can feel the air moving its shafts in her scalp, and then they are off. Max drives first, and Furiosa leans her head out his open window like a dog, her eyes closed, her lips parted, her neck extended.

They set up camp on the Powder Lakes where everything is silent, and the ground is so flat dry that it peels like a sunburn. They are alone, not another living thing except for maybe a salt beetle or two, but they never meant nobody any harm. There’s no wind to erase their tracks, at least for now, and something about the way the ground curls up into rolling hills at the ends of the Citadel Plateau keeps most of the storms away; the scuffs and trails they leave behind may last a thousand days or so. For now it feels like they really have reached the end of the world, like the ground might just drop off beneath them a few clicks further into the nothingness. 

As soon as things are settled, Furiosa breaks into first a run and then a sprint. Her boots pound the flat earth even flatter, the salt shattering beneath her glory. The land ground bows before her as if she were its queen or its empress. Max is reminded of the Vuvalini story where the lion Sekhmet was so angry at the cruelty of men that her roars turned the earth to dust; did she ever look upon her works with pride? Maybe she just wanted peace and quiet.  
Furiosa comes back more leisurely, panting and coughing as she presses her palm to her right side. She’s smiling though; the little winces that Max knows are there barely register on her face. She sits heavily onto the Interceptor bonnet and throws her head back so her windpipe is wide and open. Her sweat makes her skin glimmer in the sun as if she is merging with the surrounding salt pan.

“I needed that,” she pants as Max hands her a full canteen, and he isn’t sure if she means the run or the water, probably both. She must notice his concern over her laboured breathing because she says next, “It’s kinda nice…” she digs a knuckle into a cramping muscle in her side, “grounding.”

He knows she gets lost in her head sometimes; she doesn’t need ghosts to give voice to her doubts. They are always lurking like some snake curled up in a pile of stones. Max can tell when she senses its presence, when she is tiptoeing past some particularly fraught section of her memory.

Furiosa stretches her body to its full length so her ribs pop up and her belly pulls in, leaving a gap between her patched up waist cincher and and her dingy shirt. Then she groans as she relaxes onto the bonnet; it’s a self-satisfied sound of her revelling in the way her efforts with the Pups have done worked exactly as intended. She snakes a couple of fingers under the cincher bottom to rub her abdomen. Then her hand rests there, fingers splayed so her palm rests on the curve of her belly while her fingers slip beneath her waistband. Max feels himself stir at the thought of her dark hairs parting for those fingertips.

“Lets break out some hooch,” she says languidly.

That they were able to make off two different flavours of moonshine says something about her achievements at the Citadel. She would be the first to remind him how none of the achievements are hers alone, but she was at least a necessity for their existence. Max still is awed that anyone would simply let them drive off with something so valuable. 

The next thing he knows, they’ve built a small but luxurious fire from dead Citadel sticks and twigs. It’s a bit like the marshmallow roasting fires of his youth, modest but warm and bright and smoky enough to be risky. He knows that’s the point, and that Furiosa is gulping moonshine for the same reason; she wants to tempt fate.

“Hey, save some for me,” Max grumbles playfully. 

“Just ask,” Furiosa says as she turns her attention to the seed cakes begging to be eaten.  
The moonshine burns like it should, and it tastes of ginger and lemon. Iris had said it would be easier on her stomach, which was probably just giving her problems because her age catching up to her. Furiosa had turned her eyes to bitter daggers, but she accepted the special moonshine anyway; it was better than getting sick and definitely better than not being able to booze at all. Apparently she likes the taste enough.

“This working for you?” He sets the bottle down within her easy reach.

“Not really,” she grumbles between swigs. Then she loosens her cincher and leans back against the Interceptor’s rear tyre. “It’s fine,” she’s protests when she feels his eyes on her, and she eats another sandwich of seed cakes, jerky, and dried fruit to prove her point.

Her eyes drift shut, and her skin practically glows in the firelight. She belches softly, and again her hand moves over her belly which swells into her palm with each inhale. Her thumb slips under her cincher and glides back and forth stroking the bit of flesh that has accumulated around her navel. The sight of it makes Max ache with want. 

He takes a long drink and then scoots closer to her so they are on the same blanket. He moves the moonshine and the picnic box away so he can hold her without worry about kicking them over. She rolls to her side and sighs as he presses his belly to her back and his face to her neck. She smells of flesh and dust, Gastown oil and Citadel soil. 

She cups the back of his head with her metal hand. Her cold, sharp fingers scratch against his scalp just hard enough to send chills down his spine. They shift, carving thin lines that remind him of his momentary fragility. The idea that she could snap his neck or send a single, pointed finger into his medulla is almost enough to make him cum then and there. 

“Easy there, Pup,” she laughs huskily at his moans until he nips her neck in retaliation. 

She writhes and twitches as her mouth stretches into an easy grin. She shifts her metal hand to his shoulder and grips hard enough to break the skin while her flesh hand glides lower on her belly, flicking open the snaps on her fly as she goes. She moans from deep in her gut as it expands to claim the space between the halves of her parted fly. Max places his hand on hers and lets his fingers drape onto her flesh. Even like this, she can hardly be called soft: the muscles of her abdomen tighten reflexively, and she curls herself and Max around her.

He lets one leg bend a bit more so it tuck closer to her. Furiosa parts her legs and ruts against Max’s thigh in a long, slow motion. Her belly shifts and relaxes as her pelvis swings back. Her hand migrates to her clit, leaving Max’s heavy on her gut. He presses down with the heal of his hand right as she tilts her pelvis forward, and her muscles tense and bulge into his hand. It reminds him of the warmed stone she places at the foot of her bed and covers with her fluffiest blanket on the coldest nights of winter. 

She grinds again, harder and faster. Her bum brushes against his cock, making it twitch with excitement. Max reaches his free hand between her legs while he pulls her against him. He gives teasing strokes to her outer lips while he flicks at her earlobe with his tongue. Then he plunges first one finger into her and then a second. 

She’s wet and ready, which he knew from the way she was riding him, but he still likes to feel it for himself. He’s still as amazed as the first time they were intimate that a woman like her floods like springtime for a man like him. 

She twists herself so she can kiss his mouth savagely. He strokes her deepest ridges, making her gasp and moan with feral abandon. Golden firelight traces the bones of her face, the sprinkling of silver hairs mixed in with her dark bristles, her slick, white teeth. He makes short work of her then, rubs her clit until she’s huffing and bucking into his hand. 

She grunts as she sits up and starts to unbuckle the belts from her ribs, but Max stops her with a, “Wait.” She pauses, and he explains, “Someone might come.”

She lifts the pauldron so she can roll her shoulder beneath it. “What? There’s no one out here.”

“That’s, uh, what they want to think.” 

She laughs, but she keeps her prosthetic on as she rises and digs through her bag for her mint drops, another present from Iris. “So I should keep watch then?” She sticks out her tongue to receive her dose. “Is that what you’re saying?” She rubs her belly in way that makes Max think she would prefer to be upright for a bit.

“Mm-hm.” Max smiles as he rolls to his back. The salt pan isn’t as soft as it looks, and the blanket is hardly helping, but it should be tolerable. He unfastens his pants and sets to work finishing himself off. He refuses to be disappointed; he has everything he needs.

Furiosa walks towards him looking as beautiful as ever in the starlight. There’s no moon tonight, just endless stars, and she might as well be one of them she moves so easily. Her gate is purposeful, her eyes dark and daring. 

She stops him with her metal hand mid-stroke. “That’s my job,” she hisses.

Max gulps, which make her laugh. She keeps her hand firmly on his for long enough to slip her pants off her hips. She gives him an authoritative glare before she lets him go so she can kick off a boot and wriggle that leg free. Max thinks she might have a fresh scar or two, but in this light he can’t be sure.

What he can see are the gears of her mind turning in the mischievous look on her face. She wants to do something reckless, something stupid. She wants to fuck under the open sky.

“So… drops are working?”

Furiosa shrugs as she mounts him. “Don’t worry about it.”

She’s warm and wet against his skin, wet enough that he probably doesn’t need to spit on his hand, but he does anyway. She leans back, and Max kisses the back of her neck as she eases her pelvis onto his cock. She moves with little pumps and little groans to stretch herself. Her warmth wraps around him, her every little movement deepening the embrace. 

He curls his toes inside his boots and digs his heals into the salt pan past the blanket. He imagines whoever passes through here next will hunch over his scuff marks on the flakey ground. 

He tips his head back and closes his eyes while his hands find her hips. He braces her as she grinds against him, his fingers pressing into the muscles at the top of her ass. He massages her until she moans and her tension dissipates. Furiosa arcs her back, pushing him deeper into her. She grunts, quickening her pace so her ass bounces rhythmically. He swats at it, first gently then raking his nails across her skin pale. She responds by leaning forward and digging her fingers, flesh and metal alike into Max’s thighs.

“Not.. the… left,” he grunts between her thrusts.

She shifts to the right. “Harder.”

He scratches again then backhands her so she can feel his knuckles. Her grunt she gives in response is tight and focused. He imagines how her face is clenching in concentration. Her head bobs as she loses herself in chasing that second orgasm of the evening. 

She pauses and orders, “Deeper,” as she coaxes his knees to bend. “Make me hurt.”

Max wants nothing more than to make her feel good, to feel her open for him while she grows, blossoms, thrives. Their world, her life, it’s all so brutal already, and Furiosa shouldn’t have to be strong enough to take it, but she is, and Max loves her for it. She’s chosen a fitting position for herself atop him, like she’s some post-apocalyptic Annie Oakley riding fearlessly into an endless night. She’ll chase down every star.

So Max bends his knees like she wants and thrusts himself into her until she howls long and loud and savage. Her shoulders hunch forward, and she snarls like an animal, fangs bared, and Max is hard pressed to remember ever seeing something more beautiful. He holds her image in his mind as he closes his eyes and surrenders to her body’s work on his. Release comes as he tosses his head back and then opens his eyes to the stars.

They spend the night curled against each other in the space that used to be the Interceptor’s back seat. Between the chill and the activities of the previous two days, Furiosa is stiff and creaky when she wakes. She grunts as she kneads knots from her hip creases, and she admits to a little bit of a headache from the moonshine, but her stomach is surprisingly _fine_ , even after breakfast. She says it in a way that makes Max believe she actually means it. That puts them on pretty equal footing as far as feeling their ages goes, so he’s happy to let her drive. 

“How long do you think the Powder Lakes go?” she asks before starting the engine.

“Got two days to find out,” he says as he briefly checks their compass before tucking it away out of sight. “Then turn back.”

“You mean you haven’t crossed them?”

Max shakes his head. “This is…” he looks around for any clear landmark – nothing, just salt and sky, “as far as I’ve gone.”

Furiosa smirks as she fangs for the horizon, her eyes brilliant white against her dark grease. “So anything could be waiting for us…”

Max pats his shotgun in its holster. “Anything,” he echos.

**Author's Note:**

> So I have this headcanon that War Boy courtship involves the creation and gifting of steering wheels.
> 
> In my completely unprofessional opinion, I’m going to say Furiosa’s stomach is bothering her because of anxiety.


End file.
